


pack up all my care and woe

by voodoochild



Category: Thick of It (UK)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Divorce, F/M, First Time, Morning Sex, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nicola wakes up to a Malcolm in her bed and regrets she hasn't had yet. Malcolm just wants to be human for a while. (Spoilers for the series finale.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	pack up all my care and woe

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Bye Bye Blackbird". Spoilers for the finale, with a bunch of conjecture as to what could happen down the road. Written for [this prompt](http://ttoi-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/726.html?thread=122582) on the TTOI kinkmeme.

She wakes to him curled around her, all clothing still firmly in place, but definitely not where she'd left him last night.

She'd left him in her spare room, empty for weeks since that last fight between her and James, since James had taken the kids to his sister's and told her she had until summer hols were over to find a new place. She'd left him monosyllabic, which was fine, because she hadn't felt like conversing with the traitorous bastard, but the deadened look in his eyes suggested she not close the door in his face. They'd sat in her kitchen, watching the fallout on the telly - her resignation, his sentencing, rat bastard Dan Miller and his pet strawman Judas talking about reform and a bright new day for the party, the Opposition rejoicing at their downfall - drinking cup after cup of tea because neither of them felt very warm.

It's warm now, huddled under her covers with Malcolm's arms slung around her waist and his head resting in the hollow of her neck. She hasn't woken up with a man in her bed in longer than she likes to admit - it's been years since she and James had shared a bed, and *she* wasn't the one fucking around before their impending divorce - but it's strangely familiar, having him here. 

The wind ruffles the curtains, letting pale dawn sunlight in, and Malcolm stirs, blinking up at her like a particularly grumpy owl. 

"Oh," he says, a bit sheepish. 

"Yeah. Um, is there a reason you're doing an excellent octopus impression in my bed right now?"

And of course, this is when he shuts down, shuts her out. Breaks out the profanity and bullying and throws all her "blubbery feelings bullshit" back into her face. Because god forbid she function as a human, and she cracks an eye open when she *doesn't* hear any response.

He extricates himself from her, sits up with his vest rucked up on his skinny chest and his hair gone mad-scientist, and just looks at her. Looks *through* her, more like, and she doesn't know what to do with this kind of Malcolm. "I thought - maybe, I dunno, just maybe, it'd stop."

"That what would stop?"

"This fucking hole in my chest. The one that hasn't been right in two years - fuck, probably longer, probably since Jamie - no, you know, I can't even fucking remember the last time I did something for me, something purely selfish. Something besides promising you the fucking moon on a platter if you didn't go to America."

Fuck, she didn't want to remember that; Malcolm, disgraced but not disempowered, standing across a desk from her and begging her "stay". Easier to think he'd done it to keep from losing at political Jenga, that he was only thinking of the Party. Easier to convince herself that nothing he did was personal, because then he hadn't stabbed her in the back for Dan Miller and twisted the knife so publicly she'd called an inquiry to get out of it.

And she's never been good at keeping her mouth shut, because she squints angrily up at him (fuck, she hates not having her contacts in) and finally lets it out.

"You fucking liar. You fucked me over, Malcolm. You told me to stay, you made me Leader even though at the time, I begged you to find someone else who wouldn't disappoint you, and when that prophecy fucking went and self-fulfilled, you humiliated me just to make yourself look better to Dan fucking Miller. Dan Miller, Malcolm! The man would prop up Churchill's dead body for a vote. And then you let _Ollie_ pull the trigger, for fuck's sake."

"For the-"

"Do not _give_ me that. Do not. If you fucking meant any of that sad-sack wallowing you just said, then you know what I want to hear."

He reaches out for her hand, catching it in both of his when she doesn't give it to him, and pulls her upright. His thumbs run over her palm, and she curses every stupidly-adolescent thought she's ever had about his hands, because she shivers, a little bit. He looks at her, and it's just like before the election. He *means* it.

"I'm sorry, Nicola. I am. I could make excuses till I'm fucking blue in the face, but it doesn't matter, does it?"

It really doesn't. She's still divorced, disgraced, and trying like fuck to land a consultant position anywhere but Whitehall. He's still indicted for perjury, about to serve eight months in jail, has to report to HMP Spring Hill in four days. Nothing changes that. She sighs, running her free hand through her hair and looking up at the ceiling. How the fuck have they ended up here? 

"I want to say it does. Because - fuck, Malcolm, I know you mean it. And I know you do, in some weird back-arsewards way involving showing up to my door at 2 in the morning and drinking all my Maharajah Chai, regret a lot of things."

"Yeah, I do fucking regret a lot of things," he muses, then tugs at her hand to press his mouth to her wrist. "For instance, you know what I regret? Should've tossed you atop your desk and shagged you rotten the night you won Leader."

She remembers that night. Feeling a thousand feet tall, like she could do *anything*, spinning around in her old office at DoSAC, not caring a fucking whit if anyone saw her. Shouts of vote counts and election returns echoing down the corridors, and she'd thought "I did it. One more step to PM." And there was Malcolm in the doorway, looking like he'd ran the entire way from Number Ten, with the smallest and brightest of smiles on his face. He'd twirled her around, kissed her cheek so very gently, and whispered _there's my girl_ into her ear.

She could have fucked him that night. Or the night of the Party Ball, drunk on champagne and the way his eyes traveled over the bodice of her aubergine dress. Or that time they went out to Truro for Britain in Bloom and he refused to let her out of her hotel room until she got her speech right. They've been dancing around it since he followed her into that loo in Eastbourne, backed her against the counter, and told her to compose herself and fix the situation. Still dancing around it, because for all he just outright propositioned her, if she wanted to, she could ignore him, dismiss it as early-morning impending-incarceration regrets.

But they're in her _bed_ , the both of them completely finished in politics. He's long-divorced, she's newly-separated. What the fuck does she have to lose?

She flicks her gaze up at him, smiles a little bit at the blatant uncertainty on his face. "Wouldn't have placed you for a man with those kind of regrets."

"Yeah, well, if I actually acted upon every inane fucking notion that popped into my brain-"

"This morning would be going a *lot* better," she interrupts, and slides a leg over his hips to straddle him. Shoves his shoulders to the bed, and fuck, he's so pliant for her, arching up against her and wrapping his hands around her hips. "Come on, Malcolm, we're fucking finished anyway."

"Don't you fucking say that," he says, pulling her down to kiss her. Stale tea and chapped lips and she doesn't care, because his mouth is perfect. Hot and wet and he kisses slow and shivering like he never wants to stop. But he breaks away, breathing hard, and there's something of the old fire back in his eyes. "You are not fucking finished, you hear me?"

And she hears him, but it doesn't matter when he trails his mouth down her jaw, leaves little stinging bites that make her moan and grind down against him. She's only in a tank top and knickers, and the fabric grows slick between them, making him swear low and vicious into her ear. She can feel him holding back, keeping the few clothes that they're wearing between them, and she doesn't know what to make of that. She'd always imagined him being the take-charge type, but as he sucks a kiss into the underside of her breast and leaves a wet patch on the blue cotton, she can see the tension in his shoulders.

If there's anyone who knows what anxiety and tension and impending panic looks like, it's Nicola Murray. So she winds her hands into his hair and tugs gently, tilting his head up and oh, god, she felt that moan go all the way down. He sighs as she weaves her fingers into his hair, stroking and running her nails through the short curls at the base of his neck. She shifts over him so that she's sitting on his thighs, and presses a soft kiss to his mouth.

"You're not finished either. No one finishes you."

He sounds so resigned, almost as bad as the day he turned himself in. "I finished me, sweetheart. Nothing left to see here."

"No." Her hands tighten in his hair and his eyes snap open, narrowed and focused and fucking *hell*, she missed that look. "I fucking forbid you, okay? Fuck the Inquiry, fuck the press, fuck the Opposition in their arselicking Stepfordesque heads and also up their enormous bumholes, and fuck _you_ for giving the fuck up."

"Nicola, I'm supposed to be a model fucking prisoner in four days. Sit on my arse, build some lopsided birdhouses to hand out in the fucking pensioner's they'll send me to once I get out."

"Pension- you're fifty-fucking three, Malcolm!" He rolls his eyes at her, dragging his hands up her sides, and she exhales in a shiver as he cups her breasts. "Why can't you do the time, plot or scheme or whatever applied bollocks you do, and then come back?"

"Why can't you, if you're so fucking set on it? Fuck DoSAC and the Party, become an advisor. Enough politicians out there can't find their dicks and/or ladybits with two flashlights and a map of the London Bloody Underground. I fucking taught you at least enough for that."

She shakes her head, resists the urge to shift his hands away, cross her arms over her breasts, and sulk. "Because I am bloody well finished with getting fucked up, down, and sideways by the entire political system."

"And - what? I'm not allowed to be? Fuck _that_." He twists his head out of her grip and palms the back of her neck, forcing her down to his level. "Do you even have the slightest idea-" He cuts himself off, dropping his hands to his sides and resting his forehead on the hollow of her collarbone. "I've hurt enough people."

This is their problem, isn't it? One-upsmanship. The constant struggle to hurt or be hurt. They don't know how to be equals. She came to DoSAC needing to listen to Malcolm and learn from him, and then he made her Leader, so he had to obey her - and look how that turned out. One of them was always making decisions for the other. One of them was always disappointing the other.

"Okay," she whispers, running her fingers across his back, down his arms. Tracing aimless paths across pale skin that hasn't seen sun in years, and he just goes boneless beneath her. Like he hasn't been touched continuously in a very long time, and it's not that far a stretch. "I'm sorry. It's just - well, I don't have to tell you how shite a week it's been. Neither of us should be making decisions."

"Just one." He takes a breath, then presses his mouth to the curve of one breast above the neck of her shirt and looks up at her, small and vulnerable and human. "So, darling, one for the fucking road and all?"

Fucking ridiculous man - she could thwap him, she really could, but that would be counterproductive when there are other things she wants to be doing with her hands. 

"Considerably more than one, I think," she says, and peels his vest up and over his head. "You have four days to fill and I have no other demands on my time."

"Ah, fancy that," he murmurs, leaning back on his elbows and watching her remove her own shirt. She particularly appreciates the slackness to his jaw when he first gets a look at her breasts. She appreciates his mouth more, licking up her collarbone and biting sharp and gorgeous at her neck. She's going to be all over bruises - just the well she doesn't intend on leaving the house for four days. 

It's a bit awkward at first, she gets elbowed in the arm as he shoves his pyjama pants down, she kicks him in the shin trying to get her knickers off, but he pulls her to him and shivers when he feels her skin against his. Never, in her wildest - okay, no, maybe in her wildest, because she's had some downright filthy daydreams - dreams has she considered she'd be here, like this. With Malcolm. Completely naked, bright sunshine pouring in, all her blankets shoved down. Not freaking out at the thought of fucking him, or all of her extra pounds on display at once. She has reached fucking Zen, and it feels like Malcolm Tucker running his hands all over her and kissing her like he plans on carrying out a military invasion.

They set a few ground rules ( _"relax, stop running your brain and thinking I've never seen fucking stretch marks before, if you hide under those blankets I will fucking spank you"_ and she'd countered _"I don't do spanking, name-calling or anal sex, I'm not opposed to rough, but make up your mind now"_ ). 

He votes slow, but makes her promise to do rough and fast later. His mouth presses to the curve of her breast, sucking a slow, spreading pink mark. The list of things she missed out on with James as a husband is long, extensive, and has footnotes from here to fucking Bath, but one of her favorites is discovering how sensitive her tits are. She nearly comes off the bed when he lets her feel the edge of his teeth against one nipple. His mouth makes her squirm, makes her hook one leg around Malcolm's hip and grind into his thigh, his murmur of approval rumbling through her. Malcolm kisses filthy everywhere he puts his mouth, it seems, and she's really looking forward to seeing if it holds true when he finally goes down on her.

"Something you want, pet?" he asks, staring up at her. "Say pretty please."

"Pretty fucking please with a cherry on top," she grits out, but he's already slid down and parted her with his fingers.

And she should have known he'd be like this - teasing and dirty and so focused she wants to scream. His mouth smears along her thigh, licking and biting softly, making her shake and beg for more, which he gives her with his fingers. Slides two slow and firm against her clit, then follows the motion with his tongue. Her breath goes out in a long "ohhhhh", and he must like it when she makes noise, because he murmurs in approval. She needs something to grasp onto, so she curls her palm around the back of his head. She'd expected his hair to feel bristly and sharp between her fingers, but it doesn't. It prickles a little when she runs her hand against the grain, but it's soft and silver and he fucking purrs when she touches it. Her nails scratch a little, and he hums against her, low and electric. 

Fuck, it has been for-fucking-ever since she's been eaten out. She could regret not sleeping with him earlier, if this was what she's been missing out on.

He doesn't let up when he pushes her over the edge; he stays right where he is, licking and suckling at her, working his index and middle finger inside her. The penetration makes her scream, makes her arch and shiver and beg him not to stop. She comes again, hair-trigger, and he pulls back, letting her gasp and come back down. The way he's watching her right now is almost frightening in its intensity, balanced on his elbows, ice-blue eyes locked on her as she moans and tries to remember what normal breathing feels like. 

"Yeah, we're doing _that_ again a few dozen times," he says, dipping his head down to nip at her thigh and watch her jerk at the sensation. "Could fucking set up a diving bell down here, you're so wet for it. What do you think, round two?"

Round two is a good plan, and as much as she could lie here all day with his mouth between her legs, she needs to one-up him. Call it revenge, call it an inferiority complex, she just wants to know he's dying for this just as much as she is. 

"Definitely," she says, pulling him up by his hair and one shoulder, flipping him onto his back in a neat little self-defense move her yoga instructor had insisted they all learn. He blinks up at her, slightly bemused, and she settles herself lower on the bed. "Your turn."

And there is not a man alive who turns down a freely-offered blowjob; Malcolm Tucker is no exception. She palms his cock, drawing her thumb over the head and relishing his deep and heartfelt groan; teases him with too-shallow strokes from her hand. Bemused, she watches as he thrusts into her grip, grips the sheets in white-knuckled fingers, his eyes closed and his head tipped back. When she thinks he's just relaxed into the rhythm, she dips her head, flicks her tongue out to taste salt and pre-cum and fuck, she's forgotten the way that tastes. Bitter and hot, and it makes her lick up the rest that has pooled at the tip of his cock, mouth watering a little. Her mouth closes over him and he exhales on a low, pained, "fuck", gasping whenever she swallows around him.

There are some truly filthy words coming out of his mouth, though it doesn't surprise her a bit he's a talker.

"Jesus, that fucking mouth of yours is good for something - so fucking good, sweetheart, sweet mouth and fucking lovely tongue. Fuck, and you just take it, don't you? Would you let me go harder, make you take me deeper and faster?" Oh, here it is, there's the toppy fucking bastard she knows. She pulls off, letting him feel the cool air and the heat of her mouth, and he groans in frustration. "All right, fine. At your own fucking pace but *please*, Nicola."

Since he's changed his tune, she gives him what he wants - takes him down her throat, lets him bruise up her lips and fuck her mouth a little. He gets quieter the closer he gets, harsh breathing and soft curses, his hands gathering up her hair to watch the way he disappears into her mouth. He pulls her hair sharply, hissing through his teeth when she does that thing with her tongue he seems to like, and she doesn't know if it's the angle or the curl of his fingers or if it's just that it's Malcolm, but she shudders and moans for it. She doesn't usually like having her hair pulled, but he laughs, low and filthy, and does it again, twisting his fingers into the dark waves.

"Like that? You are fucking full of - jesus, *yes*, again, right fucking there - surprises. Fuck, that feels amazing, you just go on fucking doing that."

She keeps at him, sliding her lips over him, stretched tight around his cock. He shouts and swears and twists her hair, finally coming on a low, quiet moan, spilling into her mouth. She swallows him down and he shudders, tugging her up to lie atop him. Humming, she settles against his chest, leans up to kiss him, laughing into his mouth as he groans at the taste. Her thighs slide together and yeah, she could come again fairly quickly, but Malcolm's wound his arms around her and buried his face in her hair, breathing deep and even. He's not quite asleep, but considering he's using her as an overgrown teddy bear, she can wait a bit for round three.

She's a complete laughingstock in politics, about to be divorced, and she's just shagged Malcolm Tucker. Not a bad start to a new life.


End file.
